At that hour Charlotte, whose labours had been enlarged by herself to cover a thorough overhauling of the entire house—­such tasks being her special aversion, and therefore to be discharged without mitigation on this first day of self-sacrifice—­wandered disconsolately into the kitchen with broom and dust-pan, looking sadly weary.  She gazed with envious eyes at her sister, flying about in a big apron, with sleeves rolled up, her cheeks like carnations, her eyes bright with triumph.

“Well, you do start in with vim,” the younger sister observed, dropping into a chair with a long sigh.

“Yes; and the work has gone better than I had hoped,” declared Celia, whisking a tinful of plump rolls into the oven.  “It’s really fun.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Poor child,” said Celia, pausing to glance at the dejected figure in the chair, its dark curls a riot of disorder, a smudge of black upon its forehead, and its pinafore disreputable with frequent use as a duster, “I gave you too much to do!  Didn’t I hear you in Delia’s room?  You needn’t have touched that to-day.”

“Wanted to get through with it.  Delia may be a good cook, but she left a mess of a closet up-stairs.  Please give me one of those warm cookies.  I’m so used up and hungry I can’t wait for supper.”

“Justin came in half an hour ago so famished there wouldn’t have been a cookie left if I hadn’t filled him up with a banana.  By the way, I sent him down cellar after some peach pickles, and I haven’t seen him since.  I’ll run down and get some.  I’ve hot rolls and honey for supper, and Lanse always wants peach pickles with that combination.”

Celia took a bowl from the cupboard, opened the cellar door and started down, turning on the second step to say: 

“Go and take a bath and put on a fresh frock; you won’t feel half so tired.  Wear the scarlet waist, will you?  I want things particularly bright and cheery to-night, for I know Lanse will come home fagged with the new work.  Mrs. Laurier sent over some red carnations.  I’ve put them in the middle of the table; they look ever so pretty.  I’m going to——­”

What she intended to do Celia never told, if she ever afterward remembered.  What she did do was to slip upon the third step of the steep stairway, and, with no outcry whatever, go plunging heavily to the bottom.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III

“Celia—­Celia—­are you hurt?” cried Charlotte, and dashed down the stairs.

There was no answer.  With trembling hands she felt for her sister’s head.  It lay close against the cellar wall, and she instantly understood that Celia must be unconscious.  But whether there might be more to be feared than unconsciousness she could not tell in the dark.  Her first thought was to get a light, the next that she must have help at once.

She rushed up the stairs, calling Jeff and Justin, but neither boy was to be found.  Then she ran to the telephone, with the idea of summoning one of the suburban physicians, but turned aside from this purpose with the further realisation that first of all Celia must be brought up from the cold, dark place in which she lay, and restored to consciousness.